


Just in Time

by tolieawake



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Fix-It, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Fixes Things, Stiles-centric, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, like a mini The Strength of the Wolf AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1931586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolieawake/pseuds/tolieawake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Stiles went back in time - to change things before they went wrong?</p>
<p>(basically like a mini AU for my fic The Strength of the Wolf - what if Stiles ended up in a different time - the night Peter killed Laura?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just in Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Strength of the Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345657) by [tolieawake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolieawake/pseuds/tolieawake). 



Stiles gasped, flinging himself upright as he came awake. He stared wildly about himself, eyes skittering over the half-familiar surrounds of his room. His laptop replaced with an older version. His bookshelf half-empty. His desk pushed just that little bit too far to the left, too close to the window. His window closed, curtains pulled across it.

 

Throwing his covers back, Stiles stumbled out of his bed, staggering as his legs turned to rubber beneath him for a moment, before firming up.

 

_Peter!_ his mind screamed. Had he made it? Was he in time? 

 

Yanking at the curtains over his window he pulled them back to stare up and out – at the full moon. Fumbling, he snatched his phone (old and clunky) up from his bedside table, lighting the screen to stare at the date.

 

Breath heaving, Stiles flung himself back over his bed, reaching down the other side, fingers scrabbling for the box he kept beneath it – they closed on empty air. He hadn't placed it there yet. Gaze snapping up, he stared at his half-empty bookshelf. None of it was there yet.

 

The next moment, he had burst into motion once more, thrusting his window up and climbing out, almost falling, as he hurried to make his way down.

 

Bare feet touched the cool ground, toes curling against the cold, but Stiles ignored it, pushing himself forward in a jog across his (old) front lawn, to where his bike was lying on its side (his jeep was nowhere to be seen and something whispered in the back of his mind that it was in the shop once more). Snatching it up, he swung himself up into the seat, taking off down the road as fast as he could peddle.

 

His breath hung in whisps in front of his mouth and the cold air whipped against his face, chilling him. But all he could focus on was the thump of his heart, the push of his legs, and keeping the bike upright as he careered around corners.

 

In what seemed to be both forever and yet no time at all, he was skidding to a halt, half-falling off his bike as he leg it slide away from him across the rough ground at the edge of Beacon Hills Preserve.

 

Leaves and dirt and small twigs stuck to his feet as he began to run, pushing his way into the preserve. It was so familiar (and yet not, not yet). But where,  _where?_

 

His mind whirled,  _where had they found the body?_ Cresting a rise, Stile skidded to a stop (he may have cut his foot on something, but he ignored that).  _No, not where they'd_ found _the body – it wouldn't be there yet. That had been Hunters. So where was she killed?_

 

Spinning in a circle, Stiles stared around himself. The tall, bleak trees of the reserve ringed him in on every side, standing silent. Gasping, breath catching in his throat, he leant over, placing his hands on his knees as he tried to draw in more breath.  _Where?_

 

Pushing himself upright, Stiles stepped forward, eyes scanning. There. A small shoot, growing off one of the trees. Grinning, he plucked it up, crushing the tiny leaves between his fingers. A faint smell rose up, and Stiles raised his hand, before flinging it out before him as he tossed the crushed plant out into the air. It flew out from his hand in a fine spray, before hanging in the air, dancing in the moonlight upon a non-existent breeze.

 

Smirking, Stiles stepped closer to it, bringing his hands up to cup around his mouth as he drew a deep breath before breathing out. The tiny particles shimmered beneath his breath forming into a faintly shining mist, undulating up and down, before beginning to drift lazily away from him.

 

Nodding, Stiles stepped forward. But not matter how fast he stepped – or ran – the shimmering mist stayed just ahead of him, always, leading him on.

 

Pushing himself forward as fast as he could go, Stiles followed the mist through the preserve, barely sparing enough time to ensure he didn't twist an ankle. Overhead, the full moon hung, heavy and large, as though pressed down against him and lending an urgency to his run.

 

Skidding into a clearing, as the mist hovered then dissipated, Stiles almost crashed into her. Laura. She was standing, half-crouched, glaring in his direction (he hadn't exactly tried to be quiet in his approach), watching him warily (a distant part of his mind noted one, that she was fully clothed, and two, that leather jackets really must be a werewolf thing).

 

“Peter,” he gasped out, not stopping to answer the obvious questions she had for him as he spun on his heel, before flinging his voice out around them as loud as he could. “Peter!”

 

“What -” Laura began.

 

There was a dark blur in the corner of his eye. Spinning, Stiles thrust his hand towards his pocket and his ever-present mountain ash. It wasn't there. He didn't have it yet. He didn't even have pockets, having rushed out of the house in his pajamas. 

 

Cursing, he bodily flung himself between Peter and Laura, flinging his hands out before him as he yelled once more. “Peter!” He could feel the power flowing beneath the word, pressing out from his hands as Peter came to an abrupt halt, before backing off warily, beginning to pace around them.

 

Frantically, Stiles cast his gaze around them. There was no mountain ash, and if Peter pressed, he couldn't keep up a barrier without any help.

 

“What -” Laura tried again.

 

Leaping forward, Stiles seized up a short but thick broken branch, lying on the forest floor. He lifted it before him, giving a quick look as he gazed over it. His eyes flickered back to Peter, who was still pacing around them, looking both wary and curious, yet oh so insane. Stiles remembered that look in his eye (or rather, a variation of if), and shivered.

 

He scrabbled for his knife for a moment, before remembering that he didn't have that either. Instead, he used his fingernail to carve a series of runes down the length of the stick. They were rough, and not very deep. He'd only have one shot at it, but it should be enough.

 

Grasping the branch firmly between his hands, he turned to face Peter. “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

 

But Peter didn't lunge, he was too smart for that, despite the insanity. Instead, he continued to circle, bare feet light against the ground.

 

“Who are you?” Laura asked.

 

“A friend,” Stiles replied, keeping his eyes on Peter.  
  
“What are you doing?”

 

He shrugged. “Saving your life.” He didn't spare her a glance, although he did amuse himself wondering what she looked like – if her confused expression was anything like Derek's (which meant, a glare). 

 

Peter fainted towards them then out again, resolutely, Stiles kept still, refusing to take the bait. He'd only have one shot.

 

“Really?” Laura snapped, seeming to have overcome her shock at his presence and moving quickly to the Hale default of angry aggression. “You'll have to -”

 

Peter lunged, moving in with incredible swiftness, low to the ground so that he could come up under Stiles' guard. But Stiles hadn't spent all that time roughhousing and training with werewolves for nothing. He swung.

 

The branch connected solidly with Peter, but Stiles wasn't trusting in the strength of his blow. Instead, as he felt the branch connect, he  _pushed_ , feeling the warmth flow down his arms, through his hands, and into the branch. The runes lit up and Peter dropped.

 

Laura gasped. “What have you done?” she asked.

 

“It's okay,” Stiles told her. “He's fine. Just unconscious.” He paused, slowly turning to face her. The pain in his feet was suddenly clamouring to be known as his adrenalin began to ease, a fine tremour making its way through him, but none of that was really his concern right then. He smiled.

 

“He's fine,” he repeated, grinning at Laura. “You're fine. You're all fine.” Then he laughed.

 

The branch dropped from nerveless fingers as Stiles sank to his knees beside Peter, reaching out a shaking hand to push against the older werewolf's shoulder. “I did it,” he whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is something that came to me while I was trying to plan out the next chapter of The Strength of the Wolf in my head. 
> 
> And this is all there is. I doubt I'll ever write anything to follow this up - I'm far too busy working on The Strength of the Wolf to do so, but this just screamed to be written so I did.
> 
> I think, in the end, it was more about me getting to play with some of my ideas for what it means for Stiles to be a Spark than I've had a chance to yet in The Strength of the Wolf. Plus I just love BAMF!Stiles.


End file.
